Plunging deep into the decolletage

Décolletage. Weeks ago, this word to me was foreign. Thanks to Julie Couillard, former flame of Canada’s former foreign affairs minister, Maxime Bernier, first my eyes and now my vocabulary have been titillated.

Brief recap: Bernier brings Couillard to his swearing-in ceremony. Couillard wears revealing sundress. Prime Minister’s Office not happy. Couple breaks up. Couillard once dated some tough dudes in biker gangs (think Hell’s Angels, not the Schwinn racing team). Media freaks. Runs photos/video of Couillard’s décolletage ad naseum. (I’ve chosen to cover it up so as to distinguish myself from said media, and also as homage to perennial douchebag Perez Hilton). Bad taste, read the quotes. Tut tut, went the opposition. Bernier reportedly left his briefs (sensitive NATO documents) at her house for five months. Bernier resigns. Media whips itself into a frenzy.

Another lurid scandal to direct the public eye away from more important issues, like this. General Motors casts off 2,500 manufacturing jobs in a province, Ontario, whose manufacturing industry is under tremendous stress. In case you didn’t click.)

Story after story made mention of Couillard’s décolletage. Common sense allowed me to figure it out, but its definition eluded me, and so I looked it up.

–noun

1.	the neckline of a dress cut low in the front or back and often across the shoulders.

2.	a décolleté garment or costume.

It’s cleavage. I mean, it doesn’t actually mean cleavage but décolletage reveals cleavage. Why one word over the other? Cleavage is something most men paw at; décolletage seems like some dainty thing you ring up Indiana Jones to find. I read articles in the Globe and Mail and Maclean’s, where décolletage was in effect. Over at the tabloid Toronto Sun, paper of the working class, cleavage was the preferred choice: Grits Claim Cleavage Will Be An Election Bust, editorial here.